


Starting Over

by Dimity Blue (Arnie)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Gen, Gen Work, Kid Fic, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnie/pseuds/Dimity%20Blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What do you mean 'Father had another son'?" Sherlock demanded, his eyes almost blazing as he glared at Mycroft from across the breakfast table.</p><p>"Just what I said, Sherlock." Mycroft put his cup back into its saucer. "Father had an affair approximately a year after Mummy died, and had another son. We have a brother."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starting Over

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning: Contains a flashback scene involving child abuse**
> 
> Contains a few lines from the series.

"Mr. Conley." Mycroft smiled as he shook the solicitor's hand, though, inwardly, he was wishing the man hadn't asked for a meeting. Between Sherlock's latest experiment, the butler quitting, and Mycroft's need to attend to his own career, he really didn't have time for whatever issues Mr. Conley wanted to bring up.

"Mycroft...it's so good to see you. You're looking fit!"

Mycroft ignored the hint of condescension in the man's tone. Mr. Conley had been his father's solicitor, and Mycroft did not consider that they had any kind of a relationship at all - let alone one where Mr. Conley could give him dieting advice, as had happened in the past. "You had something to discuss with me," he prompted, hoping he could keep the meeting short.

"Ah. Hmm...yes." Mr. Conley sat down, waving a hand at the seat opposite. "It's rather a delicate matter, Mycroft. Your father, well, you know how difficult Sherlock is - always has been - and I don't think he wanted to upset him."

Taking a seat, Mycroft resigned himself to a longer meeting than he'd planned. Mr. Conley had always taken a long time to come to the point.

"You know how much I think of you and your brother, Mycroft - you're like sons to me, especially with your being orphaned so young. Sherlock, especially, needs a firm hand - we all know what a rascal he is. I remember the incident with my secretary, Mr. Pitt-Smith's deposit box and the stuffed haggis."

Mycroft did too, and had fond memories of Mr. Conley's horrified face as the haggis exploded all over his office. However, he didn't have time to listen to endless reminiscences, so: "Yes. And you wanted to see me because...?"

"Ah. Well. I didn't want to be the one to tell you, Mycroft, but your father felt it was better to have nothing to do with them - except providing for the boy financially, of course; your father was a very responsible man. And, of course, the way the trust fund is set up, I do get regular reports from the boy's school. Unfortunately, since the death of his mother, it seems things aren't going well, so I thought it best to tell you and let you decide what should be done."

"The boy?" Mycroft hoped this wasn't what he suspected.

"Yes, the boy!" Mr. Conley handed over a file. "His mother was killed in a drink-driving accident some months ago, since then he's stayed with his step-father, however, his school reports..."

As Mr. Conley droned on, never actually explaining a thing, Mycroft flipped open the file. Fortunately, it had been written by someone with a more concise style than Mr. Conley, and Mycroft was able to ascertain the facts easily. Point one: his father had had an affair with a Miss Joanne Watson. Point two: Miss Joanne Watson had subsequently given birth to a John Watson. Point three: Siger Holmes had provided handsomely for his third son, and the income from the trust fund was paid to John's guardian. Point four: John was currently living with his step-father, but his school attendance had become sporadic, to put it mildly. Mycroft mentally checked the dates and hid his sigh of relief. His father had not been unfaithful to his marriage, as the affair had taken place approximately a year after Violet Holmes's death.

His mind relieved, Mycroft turned his attention to John's latest school photo. Dark blue eyes met his, the gaze serious, the forced smile never reaching them. More importantly, however, was the faint edge of a bruise that was just in view above the shirt collar.

Mycroft closed the file. He did not imagine that Sherlock would take this news well, but leaving his eight-year-old half-brother in a possibly abusive situation was untenable. "Thank you, Mr. Conley." Mycroft rose, interrupting the solicitor mid-drivel. "I'll deal with the situation."

"Deal with?" Mr. Conley sat back, folding his hands over his waistcoat. "I don't know that there's anything to actually be _done,_ as yet - I just thought you should be made aware -"

"Yes, I am aware, thank you." Mycroft held out his hand, forcing the solicitor to rise to his feet to shake it.

"Now, Mycroft, I'm much older than you are -"

Mycroft was aware of that too, and fully intended to have Mr. Conley firmly removed from any handling of his father's affairs - literal or not - immediately. "Goodbye, Mr. Conley."

~~~

"What do you mean 'Father had another son'?" Sherlock demanded, his eyes almost blazing as he glared at Mycroft from across the breakfast table.

"Just what I said, Sherlock." Mycroft put his cup back into its saucer. "Father had an affair approximately a year after Mummy died, and had another son. We have a brother."

"Half-brother," Sherlock corrected, his mouth tight.

"Half-brother. His name is John -"

"What a stupid name."

"- and he's eight years old."

Sherlock's restless movements stopped suddenly, then resumed. "What does he look like?"

Mycroft ignored the demanding tone and handed over the school photograph, waiting to see what Sherlock noticed.

"Why does he have a bruise on his neck?" Sherlock's gaze left the photograph and attempted to skewer Mycroft.

"I'm not positive, but it seems that John's step-father has had...difficulties since John's mother died."

"You think he's hitting him." Sherlock's tone was flat and Mycroft made sure to hide any hint of his triumph.

"It is, unfortunately, all too possible." Mycroft paused, then added, "I'll be visiting them this afternoon and will make up my mind then." He steepled his fingers together and gazed at Sherlock over them. "It may be necessary for me to remove John from the situation."

"Does Mrs. Hudson know?"

"Not as yet. I'll ask her to prepare one of the spare bedrooms." Mycroft stood and pushed his chair in. "You need not feel obliged to interact with John. As he's two years your junior, you may not find him particularly interesting."

"You took away that corpse I found."

Mycroft paused at the apparent non-sequitur. "People aren't allowed to keep corpses, Sherlock; we had to hand it over to the police. And John is not a corpse. I have every intention that he will not become one."

~~~

John looked up at the knock on the door. It couldn't be Tony back from the pub. Tony's knock was more of a thud that had the power to make John's heart stutter in fear, and it was far too early for him to have left the pub...unless he'd been thrown out. No, it was probably the truant officer again. Not that John could open the door to him, not with his face looking as it did; Tony had forgotten (or been too drunk to remember) his usual rule of no visible bruises and John's face had paid the price.

As the knock sounded again, John put his book to one side and crept down the stairs, slipping into the sitting room with the smallest amount of sound. Edging his way to the window, he pushed the edge of the curtain back a tiny bit and peered out. The bay window gave him a view of the door, and John gazed at the man's back, feeling confused. While the truant officer usually wore a suit, the rolled up umbrella was a new one on John, especially as it hadn't been raining. A movement caught his eye and he glanced over, long enough to note the sleek black car and the woman standing by it. She gave him a pointed look, and he shrank back, letting the curtain fall into place. The man knocked again, a heavier sound with a definite hint of 'we know you're in there' about it, and John's shoulders slumped as he trailed his way to the door.

He opened it slowly, wishing the safety chain still worked, but Tony had broken it in one of his drunken rages when John had left it on to check it was him before letting him in. Once the door was open about three inches, John looked around the edge of it, making sure to keep the bruised side of his face out of sight. His eyes opened wider at the sight of the man's waistcoat, a gold chain stretched across the front of it, and the thought crossed John's mind that they had to be on their way to a wedding or something and maybe they were lost. "Yes?"

The man smiled. "John Watson, I believe."

Not lost then. John had a sinking feeling the man was a social worker. Tony was going to be angry. "Uh, yes?"

"My name is Mycroft Holmes." The man paused, as if waiting for John to say something, then continued, "My father was Siger Holmes."

John frowned, thinking that was a weird way to introduce yourself, and what kind of name was Siger anyway? He hoped Mr. Holmes didn't want him to introduce himself like that, as John had no idea of his father's name, though he knew it wasn't Tony Harris and was quite glad of that fact. After another pause, John replied, "Hello."

Apparently that was the wrong answer as the man gave him a frown in return. "Do you know who Siger Holmes was?"

John thought about it. He was pretty sure they hadn't covered any Siger Holmes in school, and he definitely wasn't a footballer, so: "No?"

"I see. Is your stepfather in?"

Given a choice, John would rather have gone back to discussing the unknown Siger Holmes as he really didn't want to let the social worker know that Tony was at the pub and would remain at the pub until it closed or he was thrown out for swearing at the barmaid. "He's asleep." John gave him his best angelic look, then added, "He's been ill."

"Perhaps you could -" Mr. Holmes broke off and turned to gaze down the road.

John pulled the door open another inch and stood up on his tiptoes to stare over the fence. It looked like Tony had been thrown out of the pub very early today.

"It seems he's made a remarkable recovery," Mr. Holmes said.

As Tony stormed along the pavement to the garden gate, he seemed to realise there was a woman standing there, and he came to a halt, swaying slightly. "Hello, darling."

John cringed at the look on the woman's face, then Mr. Holmes coughed and Tony swung around, grabbing at the gatepost as he staggered.

For a moment, he stared, then his head turned back towards the woman. "Social workers." He straightened and brushed down the front of his jacket. "John, put the kettle on. We've got guests."

Tony headed up the path, a broader, bulkier man leaving the car and following him, and John dived into the kitchen, quickly switched the kettle on, then backtracked to linger, out of sight but within earshot.

"So, what can I do for you?" There was a rustle of paper, then Tony shouted, "What the fuck is this?!"

Taking a chance, John peered out, then ducked back again when Mr. Holmes looked at him, his face tight with anger.

"That is a custody order," he heard Mr. Holmes say.

"You can't -"

"My name is Mycroft Holmes. Yes, I see you recognise my name. I assure you, Mr. Harris, there is no power on earth that will persuade me to leave my half-brother with you."

"You'll take him over my dead body!"

There was a short pause, then the posh voice said, "That can be arranged."

Confused and wondering who on Earth this half-brother was supposed to be, John peeked around the door again, but all he saw was Tony's back as he protested, "Listen, the boy, he's like a son to me! I -"

"In which case, I hope you never procreate."

As Tony was yanked to one side, Mr. Holmes approached the kitchen door, and John shrank back, his heart pounding as the big man followed him into the kitchen.

"John, I'm taking you away from here," he said, firmly. "Is there anything you wish to take with you?"

John thought he was going to be sick, but he managed, "My box."

"Fetch it now, please."

John dashed past and ran up the stairs, hearing Tony argue again as he went. He tuned out the words - as long as Tony wasn't using _that_ voice, he didn't have to listen. He shoved his feet into his trainers, stuffing the laces down the sides to save tying them, then dropped to his knees and scrabbled under the bed for his box. If Tony had ever found it, he would've thrown it out, saying John was too old to keep such junk. His fingers found the edge, and he dragged it out, wrapping his arm around it tightly as he ran back to the stairs.

He was almost at the bottom when Tony turned on him, jerking at his arm as the bulky man held on to him. "John!"

John froze, not daring to move. He hated that voice, that tone, the way it made him shake inside, but moving made things worse.

Suddenly, Tony was dragged to one side, and Mr. Holmes grabbed John, lifting him off his feet and carrying him to the front door. "Put him in the car."

The lady took John's hand and hurried him down the path. As he was put into the back seat onto a booster cushion, he heard Mr. Holmes talking, his voice hard and angry as Tony blustered. The lady leaned over him to do up his seatbelt, and John felt a flush of resentment - he wasn't a baby - but then it was done and she was gone, slipping into the front passenger seat with a graceful air. Mr. Holmes got in, the other man got into the driver's seat, the car started up and John was carried off to he didn't know where.

~~~

Mycroft gave his newly acquired half-brother a long look, but John's attention seemed to be fixed on the scruffy and untied trainers he was wearing, and he didn't look up.

"John." Mycroft waited until the scared gaze met his, and gave him a reassuring smile, pushing down his anger at the ugly bruise. "You have nothing to be afraid of. As I told you, my name is Mycroft, I'm your half-brother, and I'm taking you to my home. You'll live with me and with my brother - your other half-brother - Sherlock."

"Sherlock?" There was a spark of interest in his eyes, and Mycroft did his best to encourage it.

"He's ten."

John sat up a little straighter, interest on his face. "You're...older."

Mycroft smiled again. "I'm twenty-four." That was something Mycroft felt very grateful for; he needed all his years of experience to keep ahead of Sherlock. "I work for the government. Sherlock goes to a school not far from our home and you'll go with him once the new term starts."

"Okay." John's gaze left his and moved to Anthea and Hawkins.

"That's Anthea - she's my assistant - and that's Hawkins, my chauffeur."

"Okay."

Mycroft wondered if John was naturally quiet or if he was too scared to ask questions. His fear was understandable if Harris had had a habit of violence. "If you have any questions, you may ask them and I'll do my best to answer them."

He got another look for that, then John asked, his voice almost inaudible, "How come you came today?"

"I found out about your existence yesterday. It took until today to get the custody order."

"Okay."

Ah, they were back to 'okay'. Mycroft kept his voice quiet and as reassuring as possible. "If I'd known you existed, John, I would have made sure to meet you long before your mother died, so that you'd know you had somewhere safe to go."

John's shoulders stiffened slightly, then he turned his head to gaze out of the window. "Okay," was all he said, but the word had a final air to it.

Out of mercy, Mycroft let him be. Maybe Sherlock would break through the boy's barriers, if John piqued his interest.

~~~

John kept his head turned away from Mycroft, his mind whirling and his stomach churning, though, really, he wanted to look the posh man over. He was related to John. And he was taking John to live with him and 'Sherlock'. Mycroft and Sherlock... John was very grateful his mum had named him John. He wondered if this Sherlock would be as posh as Mycroft, and guessed he would be. Hopefully, not quite as posh and not as grown up; John didn't feel he could really talk to Mycroft. He picked at the edge of a hole in the knee of his jeans, then stopped, sliding his hand over the hole to hide it. Would it matter that he wasn't as posh or as well-dressed? He wriggled his toes in his trainers, wishing they weren't quite as cramped. Tony wouldn't spend money on John's clothes even when John was living with him; John didn't think he'd fork out for clothes now he was gone. John stared at his trainers and wondered how he'd afford a new pair.

Money worries kept his mind occupied until the car turned off the road through high metal gates. John looked through the windscreen and gaped at the sight of a posh hotel, then wondered why they were stopping. Hadn't Mycroft said he was taking John to his home?

Used to not being able to question adults, John kept quiet as the car stopped and the driver got out. The driver opened the door for Mycroft, and John scrambled to undo his seatbelt and got out too, wrapping his arms around his box as soon as he was free of the car.

"Drive Miss Anthea home, please, Hawkins, then that'll be all for today."

"Yes, sir."

Anthea chimed in with a, "Goodbye, sir. Bye, John."

Turning, John caught the smile she gave him, then she got back into the car and it drove away. John glanced up to find Mycroft gazing at him.

"Let's go in, shall we?"

The front door opened as they approached, the doorman standing to one side as John stepped inside.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"William. John, this is our footman, William."

John looked up at the tall man in uniform. "Hi." Footman? What kind of a hotel had footmen?

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson. This is John. John, this is Mrs. Hudson, our housekeeper."

Leaving the puzzle of the doorman-footman until later, John found himself being smiled at by an older lady with kind brown eyes. "Hello, love. Do you want to see your bedroom?"

Before he could answer, there was a clatter from behind her, and John peered around her to find a tall, thin boy with wild dark curls and pale eyes giving him a narrow-eyed stare from the bottom of the wide staircase. "I'll show John his bedroom," he said.

There was silence for a moment, making John wonder what was going on, then Mycroft replied, "That would be kind of you, Sherlock."

As Mrs. Hudson stepped out of John's way, Sherlock turned and ran off upstairs and John hurried after him. At the top of the stairs, Sherlock paused, then, as John caught up, he led the way to the third door along and went in, leaving it open for John to follow.

"You've got a view of the drive," Sherlock said, standing by the window.

John's gaze was fixed on the bed; it was huge. Bigger even than Tony's at home. He wondered whether he'd get caught if he bounced on it, and thought maybe he shouldn't risk it. When he finally managed to look around the room, it was just as impressive. The furniture was all dark wood and bright handles; solid-looking stuff that didn't look as if the doors would come off if he pulled too hard. Turning, he noticed another door and pushed it open. "There's a bathroom!" he exclaimed.

"Your bathroom."

John turned to look at Sherlock. His? He wondered how long they'd be staying in this posh hotel that came with bathrooms just off bedrooms. "Where are the other guests?" Maybe they'd all gone out for the afternoon.

"Guests?" For a few seconds, Sherlock looked puzzled, then it cleared. "This isn't a hotel; it's our home."

"You live here?" Sherlock had to be pulling his leg, right?

"That's what a home normally means." He stepped closer, his pale gaze looking John over. "You can put your box down; no one will take it."

John stiffened, his arms tightening around the box until the metal edges dug into his hands.

"Or keep hold of it. I'll show you my room, if you like."

As Sherlock dashed past him, John followed, across the hall and into a room a little further up the hall. This one, though, was a mess. There were books piled up on every surface, papers scattered around, a single shoe in front of the wardrobe...and a human skull on the bedside cabinet.

"That's a skull!" It looked real too.

"It's a friend." Sherlock stopped picking up papers and straightened. "Well, I say friend...."

John grinned. "Is it real?"

Sherlock picked it up and held it out. For a moment John paused, then he put his box down on the bed and took hold of it. It was heavier than he'd expected, and surprisingly clean. His grin widened. "Awesome!"

A faint hint of pink appeared on Sherlock's face, then he carried on picking up papers. "Mycroft got it for me. I had a corpse but he made me give it to the police." He dumped the papers on top of some books and pulled a face. "He's so stodgy at times!"

"He got you a skull." John sat on the bed, still amazed at the fact that he was holding a real skull in his hands.

Surprisingly, it didn't seem to comfort Sherlock. "I had a whole body!"

John forced himself to look up from the skull. "What was it like?"

"It was dead!" Sherlock huffed a breath and sat down next to John. "I found it in the garden shed. The man was homeless. He must have sheltered there in the night, and suffered a heart attack during his sleep. When I found him, he was totally stiff. I tried to move the body to my shed, but it was too heavy, and the gardener told Mycroft when I told him to move it." He gave John a determined look. "When I'm older, I'll have all the dead bodies I want and Mycroft won't be able to do a thing about it."

"Where will you get them from?" John was absolutely fascinated.

"Morgues, of course." His gaze narrowed. "Or maybe I can make the police give me some. It's seems only fair, after all."

"I've never seen a dead body." Maybe, if he got to stay with Sherlock, Sherlock would let him see one.

"We're bound to find another." Sherlock took the skull from John's hands and smiled at it. "They can't be that rare; if you read the papers, they're forever turning up."

"If you worked in a morgue, you'd get all the dead bodies you want," John pointed out, feeling that might work out well for Sherlock's ambition in life.

Sherlock's gaze narrowed. "They might not let me do experiments on them. Anyway, I'm going to be a consulting detective - that's why I need to know all about dead bodies."

John was puzzled. "What's a consulting detective?" He knew what a detective was, of course; he'd seen loads of them on the telly.

"A detective who's consulted. By the police!" Sherlock added, impatience in his tone.

"I didn't know they did that."

"They don't. I invented the job."

"But...how will you get them to consult you?" It seemed to John that there were a few holes in Sherlock's plan, though he didn't want to come straight out and say so.

"By showing them how well I deduce facts. They need all the help they can get."

"Deduce?"

"Deduction, John! It's the most important skill a detective can have!"

"Deduction, right." Maybe there was a dictionary somewhere.

Sherlock's gaze fixed on his face, and John got the impression he knew John was totally lost, then Sherlock leaned forward. "For instance, your stepfather is approximately five foot ten, he's right-handed, and he wears a large coin ring with a mesh shank on the...middle finger of his right hand."

John's heart thumped unpleasantly. "You've met him?!"

"No." Sherlock sat back, looking satisfied. "I can tell from the bruise on your face."

For a moment, John stared at him, then he leapt to his feet and ran to the long mirror on the front of the wardrobe, leaning in closely to peer at the bruise. Tilting his head, he squinted. He could just make out the darker bruise where the edge of the coin ring had caught him, and the mesh had left tiny scratches in his cheek. "That's amazing."

"Really?"

John turned. Sherlock was looking surprised. "It's brilliant."

"People don't normally say that."

"What do they normally say?" John asked, curious.

"Piss off."

John couldn't help it; he laughed.

~~~

By the time they went downstairs, John was feeling a lot better. Okay, so Mycroft was sort of scary, and John couldn't get over the fact that there was a footman and a housekeeper - not a butler though, he'd quit after some trouble with a haddock and his pillowcase, and Sherlock hadn't explained that one at all - but Sherlock...Sherlock was fascinating.

They sat down at a large wooden dining table, and John couldn't help but stiffen as Mycroft came into the room and sat at the end of the table.

"Do you like your room, John?" he asked, unfolding a piece of cloth and draping it across his knees.

John glanced at Sherlock and saw him doing the same thing, so he hastily copied them. "Yes, thank you."

Sherlock flapped his piece of cloth in the air. "John's impressed by his bed." He grinned at John.

"If you bounce on it, please try to avoid falling off; Sherlock did that and it took weeks for his wrist to mend."

Sherlock's grin disappeared. "I was four!" he said, sounding annoyed.

"And it was a trial keeping you entertained until your wrist was better."

John gave Mycroft a doubtful look, surprised that anyone so grown up would be okay with people bouncing on beds, then he redirected his gaze to the bowl of soup that had just been put in front of him. He was starving; the toast he'd had for dinner had been hours ago, but he managed to wait until Mycroft picked up a spoon and started eating. Sherlock was too busy arguing with Mycroft to eat much, though John noticed he'd managed to finish half the soup before William brought in more food.

John was relieved to see the extra dishes come in. The soup had been nice but not that filling, and he hadn't wanted to ask for more food in case there wasn't any, so he tucked into the roast dinner with gusto. He'd barely swallowed the last bite before Sherlock said, "May we be excused?"

Mycroft looked at John. "Do you want to be excused?"

For a moment, John was frozen. Sherlock was kicking him under the table and nodding wildly, but Mycroft was looking at him and waiting. John mumbled a, "Yes, please," and hoped it wouldn't make Mycroft angry.

Mycroft smiled. "Then you're both excused."

Relief, mingled with surprise, made John's knees weak, but he scrambled from his chair and hurriedly followed Sherlock out of the room before Mycroft could change his mind. Sherlock didn't go back upstairs though, instead he raced across the hall and into what John quickly realised was the kitchen. John stopped as William got up from the table, but Sherlock merely waved a hand in the table's direction and said, "We're going to my shed. Come on, John!"

After a few seconds, John hesitantly returned Mrs. Hudson's smile, then ran after Sherlock.

"This is my shed."

John stared at it, half-expecting a palace with dead bodies hanging out of every window. Instead, he saw a large wooden shed with a row of fire extinguishers in different colours stacked nearby. He pointed to them, but Sherlock shrugged, muttering, "Mycroft," in a disgusted tone as he fiddled with something on the shed door. After a few seconds, he yanked open the door, then stepped back, his eyes fixed on John's face.

John glanced at him, then peered inside. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but a plain wooden table and what looked like the contents of a mad scientist's lab wasn't it. "It's a science lab!"

Sherlock looked pleased. "It's where I do my experiments." He led the way inside and handed John a pair of thick, clear glasses.

Staring up at the bulb dangling from the roof, John blurted out, "You've got electricity!"

"Only a small amount. If I try to use too much, it trips the safety circuit." He shrugged, looking annoyed. "I haven't figured out a way round it yet." He pushed a stool towards John. "You can sit down. I'll stand."

John hopped up onto the stool and put on the glasses, gazing at Sherlock and wondering if he'd produce a dead body that he was going to bring back to life. "What do you normally do when you bring friends here?"

Sherlock turned away, lifting some bottles down from the high shelves and putting them down on the table. "I don't have any friends."

"Why not?"

"People don't like me."

John stared at the back of Sherlock's head. That couldn't be right; Sherlock had a skull and a lab and did experiments. After a pause, John said, "I like you."

Sherlock stopped, then lifted down another bottle. "I'll show you how to do this, if you like."

'This' turned out to be a stink bomb that made John laugh and cough, and wish he'd had the chance to use it on Tony before he'd left. They were in the middle of writing out a list of possible hiding places for the stink bomb when William appeared carrying a tray.

"Cocoa!" Sherlock finished scribbling their latest hiding place (attached to the toilet handle so it would go off when he flushed) and put the pen down. "We'll have it out there, William."

William put the tray down on the wooden bench. "Master John's to come in and have his bath in an hour. I'll come back for the tray then."

Sherlock scowled. "That's only eight o'clock!"

"And he'll be in bed by half-past," William said, walking away, apparently not at all put off by Sherlock's glare.

"They're treating you like a child!"

"I am only eight," John pointed out, picking up a cup and sniffing at it.

"And I'm ten! I don't go to bed until much later."

"How much later?" John was pretty sure Sherlock didn't get to stay up until midnight or anything.

There was a pause, then Sherlock admitted, "Half past nine."

John hid his grin in the cocoa.

~~~

By the time John was in bed, he was hoping and praying that nothing would happen to take any of this away from him. He'd thought he was miserable before, but if he lost this, lost Sherlock, he didn't know how he'd cope. He still wasn't sure how well things were going to work out; Mrs. Hudson was taking him shopping for clothes in the morning and John was wondering who'd be paying for them. He didn't have the money, that was for sure. He didn't even have any pyjamas, and was wearing a pair of Sherlock's that were far too long for him, but Mrs. Hudson said they'd keep his feet warm in the night. Maybe he could ask Sherlock what to do about his clothes in the morning.

He snuggled down in bed, assured Mrs. Hudson that yes, he was fine, and yes, he knew he could turn on the lamp if he got scared of the dark, then lay still until she left the room. As soon as she'd gone, he scrambled out of bed and knelt down to yank his box out from where he'd hidden it underneath the wardrobe. A glance over his shoulder assured him his door was still shut, then he popped open the lid and took out his Mum's photo. It was the only one he had left of her - Tony had thrown out the rest, saying it hurt him too much to look at her. John was just glad he'd managed to take this one before the albums went into the bin. It was a bit damaged, but he smoothed out the crumpled corner as best he could before whispering, "Night, Mum," and putting it back in the box, tucking it back in place underneath one of her old hair bobbles and the broken necklace he'd found down the back of the sofa.

His nightly ritual completed, he put the box back out of sight under the wardrobe and scrambled back into bed, shoving his too-long pyjama sleeve up his arm as he went. At least, he reminded himself sleepily, he wouldn't have to listen out for Tony coming home drunk.

~~~

It was the bang on the door that woke him. John scrambled up to let him in, but the door burst open before he could get to it.

"Sleeping on the job, you little shit?" Tony grabbed his shoulder, shaking him roughly before shoving him away. "I should've sent you to the orphanage the night your mum died." He rooted around in the sideboard then swung around to face John. "Where is it? Did you drink it?"

John shook his head, not daring to try to back away. Tony had finished it all the night before, but telling him that wouldn't do any good.

"You did, didn't you? You ungrateful little fucker. Waste of space taking up my money, then drinking my booze when my back's turned."

He advanced upon John, and John's nerve broke and he ran. The door was shut though, and Tony caught his arm, shoving him up against the wall as he grew taller and taller, his other hand reaching for John's throat.

"I'll teach you to drink my booze."

His hand closed around John's throat and John's eyes popped open, darkness pressing down on him as he yanked at the neck of Sherlock's pyjamas. The material gave way, the button pinging off into the darkness, and John scrambled to turn on the lamp and reassure himself that it was just a dream, Tony was gone, and he was sitting in a posh bed, in a posh bedroom, in a posh house that belonged to Mycroft and Sherlock. The light came on and John flopped down against his pillow, his chest heaving as he breathed.

~~~

John was glad to see the dawn when it finally arrived. He turned off the lamp and lay back down in bed, wondering if it was worth it to get some more sleep. His nightmares had continued on and off - mostly involving Tony, though he'd also dreamt Mycroft threw him out for being penniless and badly dressed.

Clothes. What was he supposed to do about clothes? Mrs. Hudson was taking him clothes shopping, and John didn't have any money. Mycroft might pay for them, maybe hoping to get the money from Tony later, but Tony had no money either; he spent it all on drink. John buried his head in his pillow. His Mum had always bought his clothes for him, laughing that he was a good investment as he didn't grow that much.

John blinked, forcing the memory back. He didn't grow much...but that didn't stop him from growing at all, and his trainers only just fit him now.

Stupid though it was - he'd only known Sherlock a day, after all - John put his hopes in Sherlock having an idea of what to do.

~~~

It was just gone seven when John heard Mrs. Hudson knock on Sherlock's door and call, "Sherlock, it's seven o'clock." After a few seconds, she did the same to John's door, adding, "Breakfast at half past."

John waited until she'd gone, then darted across the hall to Sherlock's door, giving a quiet knock.

"I know!" Sherlock's voice replied, sounding cross.

"It's me, John," John whispered. He opened the door and peeked in.

Sherlock was still in bed, but he rolled over and frowned as John closed the door behind him. "How long have you been up?"

"About an hour. I want to ask you something."

"Sit down. I won't be long." Sherlock pushed back his covers and got out of bed, digging around in his drawers before disappearing into the bathroom with his clothes tucked under one arm.

True to his word, Sherlock soon reappeared, fully-dressed with his tie dangling from one hand. He went straight to the mirror and began to put on his tie, his eyes meeting John's in the mirror. "Well, what?"

"Mrs. Hudson's taking me shopping for clothes today," he began, then stopped, feeling his face heat up at the embarrassment.

"And?"

Sherlock turned, his tie perfectly in place, and John felt even worse. Maybe he had been better off with Tony. Then, it hadn't mattered that he never got his tie right or that his clothes didn't fit or had holes in them. Sherlock's gaze narrowed and John felt his face redden even more.

Finally, Sherlock said, "I'm not a mind reader," and he sounded so offended that it almost cheered John up.

Taking a deep breath, John forced himself to ask, "How am I going to pay for them?"

Sherlock frowned. "Your stepfather told you your clothes were too expensive." His gaze flicked over him, and John got the impression he'd noticed every single hole or ragged hem. "Did he tell you he couldn't afford them? He was lying. The trust fund Father left you provides enough of an income to pay for all your clothes and a private school if you'd gone to one."

"What's a trust fund?" John didn't actually understand the first half of that sentence at all.

"Like an account - a bank account. It has your money in it."

"I don't have any money." Tony had explained that one to him often enough.

"Yes, you do." Sherlock sat down next to him. "Father left it to you."

John frowned over that one; it didn't make sense. "Why?"

"Because he was your father too." Sherlock sighed, and twisted on the bed, drawing up and folding his legs to sit cross-legged facing him. "Before Father died, he set up trust funds for both of us. Mycroft doesn't bother with the allowance he could get for me, and he'll probably do the same for you but, if he wanted, he'd receive a certain amount per month to pay for my clothes and other expenses. The trust fund covers my school fees and yours will cover your school fees when you start next term." Sherlock waited, then, as John stayed silent, trying to understand it all, he added, "So Mycroft will pay for your clothes. Mrs. Hudson has a credit card to use that Mycroft pays for."

"But...why?"

Sherlock blinked. "He's your half-brother."

John frowned, turning it over in his mind. He got that Mycroft would pay for his clothes using Mrs. Hudson's credit card...he just couldn't understand why. His Mum had bought his clothes because she'd loved him, but Mycroft didn't even know John, and Tony had made it clear how very unlovable John was so... John gazed at Sherlock and realised that there were no ragged hems or holes to be seen, and he smiled, relieved that he'd figured it out. Of course Mycroft wouldn't want John looking scruffy. John's Mum had often talked about people who lived their lives by 'what would the neighbours think' and she'd said that people like that were never happy, so it was a shame Mycroft was like that too, but at least John would have clothes that fitted, so maybe that was a good thing. "Okay."

"We'd better go downstairs. Breakfast will be ready, and then Mycroft and I have to leave." Sherlock scowled. "I'd rather go shopping with you and Mrs. Hudson."

"I wish you were coming too," John said. He didn't know Mrs. Hudson much at all.

~~~

"John didn't know about his trust fund."

At Sherlock's casual statement, John dropped his spoon with a clatter and milk splashed onto the table. Mycroft ignored it, though he was aware of John hurriedly mopping up the mess with his napkin, the tension in his body betraying his sudden nervousness. "And how do you know about John's trust fund?" he enquired, though he really didn't need to ask.

Sherlock's chin rose in the air and his glare took on a familiar stubborn look.

"I see. I shall have to change the combination on my safe again."

He got a dismissive sniff in return. "You'd do better with a different safe. The tumblers on that one are too easy to hear."

John's jaw dropped, and Mycroft was quite sure he was waiting for Mycroft to annihilate Sherlock on the spot. Instead, Mycroft turned his attention to John, ignoring his white knuckles as he clutched his spoon tightly as if ready to use it in self-defence. "After you were born, Father set up a trust fund to provide an income for you. The income was originally paid to your mother, then, when she died, it was paid to your stepfather, though that has now ceased, of course." A fact that was undoubtedly causing Tony Harris some emotional distress, though Mycroft thought that to be far too inadequate, considering the state of John's face and how terrified he was over spilling some milk on the table. "When you turn twenty-one, the income will be paid to you. Until then, only your school fees will be paid out from your trust fund."

"But..." John paused, then swallowed before continuing, "What about my food and clothes?"

"I'm responsible for you. That means I will take care of your food and clothes." And John's toys and books. From what Mycroft had been able to discover, the majority of John's possessions had been left behind after his mother's death when Harris had defaulted on the rent and moved house.

~~~

"Ready to go, love?"

John forced a smile and followed Mrs. Hudson out to the car, wishing that Sherlock was there. He also wished the bruise on his face wasn't so noticeable. Tony had made it clear that he wasn't supposed to go out if his face was bruised, and what if people thought Mrs. Hudson had hit him? As she fussed around, making sure he was sitting on the booster cushion and that his seatbelt was fastened correctly, John suddenly thought that no one could think Mrs. Hudson would hit anyone. Maybe going shopping with her wouldn't be too bad.

"Shoes first, I think, Eddie," Mrs. Hudson said, as soon as Hawkins was in the driving seat.

"Right you are, Mrs. H."

As John looked up, rather startled that this was the same formal driver as yesterday, Hawkins met his gaze in the mirror and gave him a wink.

"Eddie and I don't stand on ceremony," Mrs. Hudson put in, a smile on her face. "How long have we known each other now, Eddie?"

"It must be thirty years or more by now, Mrs. H."

"I knew Eddie's mum, bless her." For a moment, she looked sad but then her face brightened. "So when Mr. Holmes was looking for a good, steady driver, I knew who to suggest. Once Eddie had passed his security checks, of course."

"Security checks?" John asked, wondering why a driver would need security checks. He remembered hearing about them in a film about the American president, but Mycroft wasn't American and he wasn't a president...was he?

For a moment, there was silence and Mrs. Hudson's gaze slid to Hawkins, then she smiled again. "Mr. Holmes has an important job, love, so he has to be sure of the people who work for him."

"Okay." John reminded himself to ask Sherlock later; he was positive Sherlock would know what Mycroft did and he was pretty sure Sherlock would tell him.

By the time they reached the shoe shop, John was feeling excited. It had been so long since he'd gone shopping with anyone. He could barely wait as Hawkins parked the car, and hurriedly scrambled out to follow Mrs. Hudson. As Hawkins followed them to the pedestrian crossing, John automatically took Mrs. Hudson's hand, then froze, thinking she'd pull away. Instead, she squeezed his hand and gave him a smile, then kept hold of his hand once they were across. Once inside the shop, she led him straight up to an assistant, who smiled at her like she was an old friend.

"Back so soon, Mrs. Hudson?" Her eyes fell on John and her smile stiffened, then she looked back at Mrs. Hudson. "New shoes?"

"We need to get his feet measured first, don't we, John?"

John nodded, feeling a little sick. He really hoped the lady didn't think Mrs. Hudson had hit him - if she knew Mrs. Hudson, she had to know it couldn't have been her. Would she think it was Hawkins then? He glanced at Hawkins, then followed the lady over to the seat and sat down, worrying at the inside of his lip. As she knelt down in front of him, he blurted out, "I hit my face on a door."

The lady sat back on her heels and looked at him, and John felt his face redden at the lie.

"John's stepfather hit him." Mrs. Hudson sounded calm, despite the terrible thing she'd said. As John stared at her, half-expecting Tony to come roaring through the door, she added, "That's why he's living with us now."

John tugged at her sleeve urgently and leaned up to whisper, "You can't say that!"

"Why not, love? It's the truth."

The lady seemed to be too busy undoing John's shoelace to listen, but he kept his voice down to a whisper. "You're not allowed!"

"Is that what your stepfather told you?" John nodded and she said, "He didn't want anyone to know he'd hit you because he knew he'd be in trouble for it." She patted his arm, but looked rather cross at the same time. "If anybody hits you, it's okay to tell people - especially Mr. Holmes. Trust me, he'll deal with them and you won't be in trouble at all."

John stared at her. Tony had always said that if someone hit him, he couldn't tell anyone, and now Mrs. Hudson was saying the opposite. It was very confusing.

She leaned down. "John, would you hit someone who's smaller than you?"

"No!" John couldn't do that - he knew it was wrong.

"Why's that?"

"Because it's wrong."

"Did your mum tell you that?"

John nodded, feeling his throat close up at the mention of his mum.

"Well, she was right and your stepfather was wrong." As she put her arm around him and hugged him, Mrs. Hudson added, "Take my word on that. Now, let's get you some new shoes."

By the time they left the shoe shop, John felt as though his head was spinning. Apart from 'new shoes' - which Mrs. Hudson called 'dress shoes', though John was pretty sure she knew he didn't wear dresses - John now had two new pairs of trainers, two pairs of sandals, and a pair of slippers. He wriggled his toes inside his new trainers as they waited for the green man to light up. His toes had tons of room now.

"Clothes next."

John looked up time to see Mrs. Hudson giving Hawkins a long look, so he turned his head to see what was going on. All he got was a smile from Hawkins, then the lights changed and Mrs. Hudson hurried him across the road to the car park. As soon as they were in the car, with Mrs. Hudson fussing over John's seatbelt, Hawkins got in and John was surprised to see a screen slide up, hiding the front of the car from them.

"That's the privacy screen, love," Mrs. Hudson said, smiling. "Eddie has a few phone calls to make."

John stared at it. Mycroft had a car with a privacy screen. John had never seen one before and he wondered if Mycroft's car had one because he had a driver who'd had security checks done. He couldn't wait until Sherlock got home and he could ask what Mycroft did in the government. Maybe he was a spy or something - or like M in the James Bond films John had seen. It all seemed rather exciting and John hoped it'd live up to his wildest dreams.

The privacy screen slid down, disappearing out of sight, and Eddie grinned at him. "All set?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Off we go."

John had expected the clothes shopping to take place at Asda or Tesco - his mum had liked their clothes - but instead Hawkins drove to another small car park, and Mrs. Hudson led him into a shop that only had men's and boys' clothes in view and had an old-fashioned air about it.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Hawkins. It's a lovely day today, isn't it?"

John tore his gaze away from the display model wearing a fancy suit and found himself looking at a tall, neatly-dressed man, who seemed far too posh to work in a shop.

"It makes a change, Mr. Barrett. I was sick of all of that rain we had." Mrs. Hudson laid her hand on John's shoulder. "This is John."

"Mr. Hawkins called and said you'd be bringing him." Mr. Barrett smiled at him, apparently not even noticing the bruise on John's face. "Now then, young man, a full wardrobe, is it?"

Mrs. Hudson spoke before John could tell him they were buying clothes, not furniture, "That's right. Everything including a three-piece suit. I'll be bringing Sherlock in to get measured for his new one next week."

"Just hop up on this footstool, John, and we'll get started." To John's surprise, Mr. Barrett produced a tape measure and started measuring him. "I expect Sherlock will have grown again." He smiled again, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners in a friendly way. "He's going to be tall, you can tell." He glanced at his tape measure, then pulled out a notebook and started writing.

John peered at it, then looked closer as Mr. Barrett tilted it so he could see. John's name was at the top, though the 'Watson-Holmes' bit was a surprise, and Mr. Barrett was writing down all the measurements he'd just taken.

Once that was done, Mr. Barrett lifted John down off the footstool and then turned to Mrs. Hudson. "Did you have any particular colour in mind for the suit?"

"Blue, I think. Not too dark." She smiled at John. "It'll go lovely with your eyes."

"I've got just the thing," Mr. Barrett said. "We got this in new last week." He produced a large roll of fairly dark blue-grey cloth and John stared at it doubtfully.

"Oh, that'll be perfect." Mrs. Hudson held the corner of the cloth up to John's face. "Yes, definitely that one." She let go of it and darted across the store to a rack of ties. "This tie too. It'll look lovely with a pale blue shirt."

Tie? The only tie John had ever worn was his school tie. Was he going to have to wear ties all the time now?

Before John could start worrying over that, Mr. Barrett handed him a shirt and pair of trousers and suggested he use the fitting room. John retreated to it before a tie could appear. By the time he came back, his t-shirt and jeans in a bundle in his arms, there was a whole stack of clothes on the chair next to Mrs. Hudson.

"There now!" Mrs. Hudson took his older clothes from him and tossed them onto her chair, then started fiddling with his collar. "Doesn't he look perfect?"

"Very smart," Mr. Barrett said, an approving tone in his voice.

As a younger man appeared from the back of the shop and started boxing up all of the clothes, John found himself stood in front of a long mirror.

"Well?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her hands warm on his shoulders. "What do you think?"

John gazed at himself, feeling a little impressed. If he ignored the bruise on his face, he looked as posh as Sherlock. He looked around, got a thumbs up from Hawkins, and grinned.

~~~

Martha smiled as she adjusted John's collar again. He looked like a little gentleman, if you ignored that horrible-looking bruise on his face - and if she ever got hold of John's so-called stepfather, she'd make him regret ever seeing John, let alone laying a hand on him. John's mother had to be turning in her grave at what her son had been through. Martha had to admit, though only to herself, that she'd been ready to blame John's mum for leaving him in such a position, but Mr. Holmes had made it clear that the reports showed John hadn't been hurt until after his mother had died. And didn't that make Martha madder than ever, in a weird sort of way? There he was, having just lost his mum, and that man started hitting him. Well, not that he was a man - more like a snivelling little weasel, and that was an insult to weasels.

Another thing Martha couldn't admit aloud was that she also blamed Mr. Holmes - John's father, that was - for the whole mess. Honestly, having a child and then not having any contact with him...what had he been thinking? Not that Martha had known Siger Holmes, of course, but it would have been better all round if he'd - what was the phrase? Oh, yes - manned up and been an actual father to his third child.

As John gave her a doubtful look, Martha took a deep breath, pushed those thoughts away, and smoothed down John's hair. It was funny to think of him being Sherlock's brother - they couldn't have looked more different if they'd put their minds to it.

"Priory's next," she told Eddie as he and Mr. Barrett's assistant put the boxes of new clothes into the boot of the car.

"Right you are, Mrs. H."

Eddie, bless him, was just as riled up about John's stepfather as she was, though you'd never think it to listen to his cheerful voice. She just hoped Eddie didn't go and do something daft, not that he was likely to risk his job or anything... In any case, Martha was positive they could leave Mr. Holmes to deal with John's stepfather. He'd do far more to that man than they ever could, and it'd all be legal too.

The car pulled up and Martha hurried John out of it and into the bookshop. She wanted to give John plenty of time to browse through the books, and, hopefully, he wouldn't choose any books on decomposing bodies or the properties of chemicals. Maybe he'd be able to get Sherlock to read some normal books too. Martha was sure it wasn't quite right for a boy to want to know exactly how long it took eyeballs to decompose under different conditions; she was just glad Mr. Holmes had forbidden Sherlock from putting any in the microwave.

"Good morning, Mr. Priory." Martha wouldn't have admitted it, but she was glad it was Mr. Priory behind the till of his shop. She hadn't been sure he'd be there, not with his bunion operation and all. And, while his assistant Molly was a lovely girl - bright too, being at medical school - she had a tendency to encourage Sherlock to discuss body parts, and Martha had seen more than one customer flee the shop while the discussions went on.

"Morning, Mrs. Hudson! You've got good timing; Sherlock's book arrived this morning."

To Martha's dismay, he produced a large hard backed book with a very realistic image of a liver on the front. As John stared at it, his eyes wide, Martha turned him in the direction of the children's books. "John, go pick out ten books you'd like to read and bring them back to the counter." She patted him on the shoulder and gave him a gentle push in the right direction, before taking the hard backed book and trying to get it into her shopping bag without actually looking at it. That done, she gave a sigh of relief and met Mr. Priory's amused gaze.

"Molly said it was a good book," Mr. Priory smiled, his wrinkled face creasing into a hundred laughter lines. "Personally, I prefer something with a good plot and fewer graphic pictures."

"Me too, Mr. Priory, but Sherlock will love that one. I just hope he won't read it out loud at the dinner table." Fortunately, Mr. Holmes frowned on Sherlock reading aloud at the dinner table, especially when the subject involved all the things that can go wrong with the human body, and Martha had extended that ban to the kitchen table.

By the time John came back, a stack of exactly ten books in his arms, Mr. Priory had told Martha all about his upcoming bunion operation. Since it wasn't his first bunion operation, he was able to provide far more detail than Martha wanted, and even Eddie's entrance into the shop hadn't put him off. Martha turned to John with relief. Not entirely to her surprise, John had picked out all paperbacks.

"Do you have these in hardback?" Martha asked, glancing through the titles and wondering who Artemis Fowl was and why anyone would lose a colony. She eyed the horned creature on the front; he didn't look friendly.

"We've got all of those in hardback," Mr. Priory told her, producing a stack of Artemis Fowl books. "Only the new design, unfortunately. I preferred the old design, myself."

Beside her, John nodded. "You could translate the fairy symbols - Mike showed me. They wrote the title and author name, and the chapter headings in fairy writing." He smiled up at Martha. "Mike and I spent ages translating them all."

"Mike?"

John nodded again. "He's a friend of mine at school."

He went quiet as Martha added the rest of the Artemis Fowl and Harry Potter books to his pile. As Mr. Priory began putting the books into large carrier bags, Martha could see John getting more and more worried about something.

~~~

Once they were back home, Martha took John into the cloakroom to wash his hands for lunch while Eddie and William carried all of John's clothes, toys and books up to his bedroom. John's sudden quietness in the bookshop had turned into total silence in the toyshop, which had Martha worried as, well, wouldn't most children be delighted with new books and toys? Instead John had retreated into silence, with a nervous, worried look in his eyes betraying his feelings. As they left the cloakroom and went towards the kitchen, Martha felt a tug on her sleeve.

She looked down, then leaned down as John stood on his tiptoes and whispered, "You won't get into trouble for buying me books and toys, will you?"

"Trouble? Why on earth would I get into trouble, love?"

John looked around, as if to make sure they wouldn't be overheard, then said, "You were only supposed to buy me shoes and clothes."

After a moment, Martha decided it was going to take a bit longer to get to the bottom of this one, and the hall wasn't the place for it. "You just wait a minute." Leaving John where he was, she poked her head into the kitchen and told Mrs. Turner they wouldn't be long, then went back and steered John into the sitting room. Once they were sitting on the sofa, she turned to him and said, "Now then, why was I only supposed to buy you shoes and clothes?"

"Because the neighbours will see."

Martha waited, but it seemed that was the extent of John's explanation. She was fairly sure Mr. Holmes or even Sherlock, bless him, would have figured it out from that, but she wasn't a Holmes and she needed a bit more. "The neighbours will see what exactly?"

"If I don't have decent shoes and clothes."

"Well, yes, they will. So why is that a problem?"

"But they won't see if I don't have toys or books."

"So...you don't need toys and books because the neighbours won't see if you don't?" John nodded, though it still didn't make much sense to Martha. What did the neighbours...? With a sudden start, Martha remembered her mum worrying what the neighbours would think about her dad running off with a barmaid. Martha had vowed there and then at the grand old age of twelve to not give a fig what the neighbours thought. "Oh, love, Mr. Holmes doesn't care what the neighbours think. He told me to get you some toys and books because, well, you're eight - you're supposed to have toys to play with and books to read." As John looked even more confused, she added, "Sherlock has toys and books - well, not that he plays with toys and we had to take away the Cluedo board, but that's neither here nor there. Suffice it to say that Mr. Holmes knows I bought toys and books for you today and he wanted me to."

"Okay."

John didn't look convinced but Martha let it go. It was probably something that horrible man had put into John's head, so, hopefully, he'd soon learn that it was alright for him to have toys and books and the neighbours had nothing to do with it at all.

"Come on, it's lunchtime and you must be starving by now."

~~~

It wasn't until after dinner (or lunch, as Mrs. Hudson had called it) that John got time to think. Mrs. Hudson had helped him put away all of his new clothes, and helped him unpack his new toys and books from the bags and whatever packaging the shop had sold them in. Then she'd smoothed his hair down again and told him she was off to Tesco, and William and Mrs. Turner were just downstairs if he needed anything.

As soon as John heard the front door close, he slid to the floor and hugged his knees, staring at the books and toys which were now sitting in a pile waiting for him to put them away. For a moment, he didn't know what to think about first. The whole day had been...different. For one thing, he'd had a decent dinner - lunch, he reminded himself - without being at school. If he'd had to stay home for any reason, John had normally eaten toast for breakfast and lunch, unless there'd been something in the fridge to make a sandwich with. Today, though, he'd had bangers and mash - lovely thick sausages, just like his mum used to cook - with baked beans to go with them. John loved bangers and mash, and hadn't had it since his mum had gone as Tony didn't know the first thing about cooking and John hadn't yet learned how to use a frying pan. Well, not successfully anyway. He'd tried it once but the flames had been really scary, and Tony had thrown the pan and food into the back yard to let it burn itself out. John had thought Tony was going to kill him after that, but all he'd said was that he was going out for a pint and John should stick to the microwave and toaster. He'd looked really funny too, and his hands had been shaking as he grabbed his keys. John had thought it was a really weird reaction, but hadn't cared as long as he didn't get battered for it.

Gazing at his trainers, John thought another difference was that everyone was nice to him. John suspected that Mrs. Hudson was nice to everyone anyway, but Hawkins, William, and Mrs. Turner - the cook - all talked nicely to him and actually listened if he said anything.

And then there were all the things Mrs. Hudson had bought for him. He hoped with all his heart that she wouldn't get into trouble for them; she'd seemed sure that Mycroft wanted him to have toys and books. John worried about it for a few minutes, then decided that he'd ask Sherlock what he thought. Sherlock had been right about the clothes and shoes, so maybe he'd know what Mycroft would think about the books and toys too.

His decision made, John slid over to the books and began to put them on the bookshelf, being as careful as he could. If Mrs. Hudson did have to take them back, Mr. Priory would want them to be as undamaged as possible. That done, John turned his attention to the toys.

The best, so far as he was concerned, was the pair of remote control cars, and his fingers itched to take up the controls and give them both a go up and down the polished floor of the hall. John took a deep breath and put them and their remote controls on top of the bookcase. The smaller, non-remote, cars went beside them, then John stacked the boxes of jigsaws, games and legos next to the bookcase, and put the tub of soldiers on top. That done, he sat back and wondered what to do to fill the hours until Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock returned.

After a few minutes, he pulled out his box. Apart from his mum's photo, necklace and hair bobble, he had two of his own cars in there, though they looked a bit old next to the shiny new ones on top of the bookcase. He ran them around the floor for a bit, then ran them up the side of the bed and across the cover, then stopped. If he put one of the books on top of the bed and turned the pages carefully, maybe he'd be able to read for a bit. That wouldn't hurt the book at all, would it?

Pleased with his idea, he put his cars away and hid his box under the wardrobe again, then looked at the rows of books. He'd been reading an Artemis Fowl book in school. Mike had the whole set and let John borrow them at breaks and dinnertime. John hadn't dared take any home in case Tony complained about the clutter again, but now he could read the rest of the book he'd been up to and no one would know.

Slipping off his trainers, he put them by the side of the wardrobe, then gently, carefully, pulled the book out of place and laid it on the bed. Grinning to himself, he scrambled up onto the bed and stretched out on his tummy to read in comfort. He finished the chapter he'd read up to in Mike's copy, and hurriedly turned the page to start the next, yawning as he did so. He blinked and rubbed his hand across the eye that wasn't bruised, then carried on reading. After a page or two, the words started to blur and John yawned again, feeling tiredness tug at him. Another yawn, and he closed the book, and rested his head on his folded arms. Maybe if he closed his eyes for a minute or two...

John yawned and stretched and opened his eyes, then blinked in surprise at the sight of Sherlock, a large book in his hands, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside John's bed.

"You're awake! Good." Sherlock got up and disappeared into the hall as John sat up and yawned again. He heard Sherlock call, "William! John's awake!" then Sherlock came back in.

John blinked at him some more and headed for the bathroom. By the time he came out, there was a tray with two glasses of juice and a plate of biscuits on top of his dressing table.

Sherlock turned from the bookcase and held up a biscuit. "Chocolate chip!" he said.

Taking a biscuit, John sat on the edge of his bed and gazed at the clock. He hadn't thought he'd been asleep for two hours or more. But, anyway, Sherlock was here, so: "What does Mycroft do?"

"He works for the government - he _says_ he's a minor official, but..." Sherlock shrugged. "He doesn't talk about his work much but I think he's more important than he says. He's met the prime minister - more than once, too."

John thought about that. He'd seen the prime minister on telly but he'd never met anyone who'd met him...until now, that was. "Is that why he has a car with a privacy screen?"

Sherlock nodded. "It's so he can make calls from the car without Hawkins hearing him."

"But Hawkins had security checks -"

"That doesn't mean he's got enough clearance to hear what Mycroft's talking about."

John stared at him. "Mycroft must be really important."

"That's why I think he's more than a minor official. You can't ask him about it though - he won't tell you." Sherlock looked cross. "He won't tell _me_ and he won't let me find anything out about it. He's really annoying."

That reminded John of his other worries. "Will Mrs. Hudson get into trouble for buying me toys and books?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "Why would she - oh! No, Mycroft will have asked her to buy toys and books." As John gazed at him, thinking that one over, Sherlock added, "You're _eight._ You're supposed to have toys and books."

"Even though the neighbours won't know if I don't?" John thought Mycroft was really confusing.

"Mycroft doesn't care what the neighbours think and neither should you."

"Okay." Sherlock sounded really sure of himself, so maybe Mycroft wanted him to have toys and books, which meant, John realised, that he had remote controlled cars, soldiers, games, legos and jigsaws all waiting to be played with. "Do you want to play with the remote controlled cars?"

Sherlock grinned. "The hall will be best!" He grabbed a car and a remote control and ran off into the hall.

Grabbing the ones left, John paused to drain one of the glasses, then ran after him. This was going to be awesome, he decided.

An hour later, he'd won one race, Sherlock had won another, they'd built a narrow mountain pass and a bridge using books and boxes, and John had just managed to nudge Sherlock's car half off the side of the bridge.

"Not fair!" Sherlock shouted, as his car revved uselessly and John had his car speed ahead towards the pass.

"It's like James Bond and the bad guys - Bond always wins!" John said, doing his best to avoid his car getting caught on the bend. As Sherlock's car somehow managed to catch the edge of the bridge and get back on track, John had his car speed up as it exited the pass. It clipped a corner and spun out of control, but John had it back on a straight line before Sherlock's car was through the pass. He'd almost reached the victory line (the hall table) when a loud knock at the door made him jump. Abandoning the race, he ran to the top of the stairs to peer over the banister, his heart thumping. It couldn't be Tony...could it?

Watching William cross the hall, John held onto the banister rail tightly. 'Not Tony, not Tony, not Tony...' was his only thought, then it disappeared as he saw who was on the doorstep.

"Where's my nephew?!"

"Good afternoon, Miss Watson. Will you come this way, please?"

There was a moment's silence, then Aunt Harry followed William across the hall, her heels tip-tapping sharply on the floor. As soon as she was out of sight, John turned to Sherlock. "What's she doing here?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, then shut it again. As the sound of a car coming to a stop reached John, Sherlock said, "There's Mycroft!" and ran off down the stairs.

John stayed where he was, blinking back the tears that were pricking at the corners of his eyes. He didn't want to go with Aunt Harry; he wanted to stay with Sherlock.

As Mycroft came in, Sherlock came running back up the stairs. He stared at John, then scowled. "You're not going anywhere! This is your home now!"

"But - Aunt Harry -"

"Mycroft won't let her take you away." Sherlock looked even more annoyed, then his eyes widened. "Unless you want to go."

"No - but Aunt Harry likes Tony. She'll think I should live with him." And Aunt Harry always got her way.

Sherlock was back to looking angry. "Then she's stupid!" With that, he turned and stalked downstairs.

After a minute, John followed. If Mycroft was going to send him away with Aunt Harry, John felt he'd rather know now, but when he got downstairs, there was no sign of Aunt Harry or Mycroft, just Sherlock, who was glaring at the sitting room door, and William, who was tidying the small room where the coats were kept.

John stood next to Sherlock and gazed at the sitting room door, then looked at Sherlock. "Are they in there?"

"Mycroft's probably being diplomatic."

John stared at the door again, feeling horrified. "What's diplomatic mean?"

Sherlock barely gave him a glance. "Talking people into doing what you want when they don't want to."

"So he's just talking to her?" That didn't sound too bad. He tensed up again as the door opened and Mycroft came out.

He smiled at John. "Your aunt would like to talk to you." As John slipped past, he heard Mycroft add, "No, Sherlock, alone."

For a brief moment, John looked at his aunt, then she rushed at him and flung her arms around him. As she sobbed on his shoulder, John tried to pat whatever part of her back he could reach. Just as he was thinking she had to be awfully uncomfortable all hunched over like that, she mostly straightened, pulled him over to the sofa and sat down, then grabbed her bag and started hunting through it. John sat down next to her and offered her the box of tissues from the coffee table, giving her a smile when she looked at him, all teary-eyed.

"Oh, Johnny!" To John's relief, she took a tissue and started drying her eyes. "I promised your mum I'd look after you, and just look!" For a moment, he thought the tears would start again, but she gulped and sniffed, then said, "I didn't know, John, I swear I didn't. I wouldn't have left you there to be smacked around like that." She sniffed again, and suddenly looked angry. "I tell you, John, if I run into Tony ever again, he won't know what's hit him!" The anger disappeared and she looked tearful again. "Your poor face!"

"It's okay! It doesn't hurt much now - honest!"

"It shouldn't hurt at all!" As he offered the tissues again, she smiled, though she looked liked she'd rather cry. "I promised Jo I'd look after you, and a fine mess I've made of that. I thought I was doing the right thing leaving you with Tony - him being a man and you a boy. What do I know about bringing up kids?" As John caught his breath thinking surely that meant Aunt Harry would be okay with him staying with Sherlock and Mycroft, she hurried on, "Not that I don't want you, John! If you don't want to stay here, just say the word and I'll take you away! I'll get a bigger flat and organise child care -"

"No!" John jumped in quickly before she changed her mind. "I like it here!"

She gazed at him, a confused look on her face. "Mr. Holmes... You don't find him scary?"

John hesitated, then, "He bought me toys and books." Well, it was the truth...sort of.

"Oh." She sat back a little. "That was nice of him. And there's the other one, isn't there? He's younger."

"Sherlock's ten." John grinned. "He has a..." For a moment, he was going to say 'skull', but he thought Aunt Harry wouldn't like that at all, so he hurriedly changed it. "A lab. It's awesome!"

"Oh, that'll be fun to play with." Aunt Harry was looking happier and happier.

John nodded. "But there are fire extinguishers, so it's quite safe."

"Fire extinguishers?" As John nodded again, she continued, "For the dog?"

"Dog?"

"The lab." Aunt Harry looked confused.

John felt rather confused himself; he was sure he never mentioned a dog. "Science lab."

"Oh! A science lab!" Aunt Harry giggled. "I thought you meant a Labrador!"

The idea of a Labrador with a fire extinguisher had John laughing too, and he laughed until he was breathless, Aunt Harry laughing along with him.

"Oh, that was silly," Aunt Harry said at last, wiping her eyes. "A dog with a fire extinguisher..." She put her tissue into her pocket, then took John's hand and smiled at him. "If you want to stay here, that's all that matters." As John nodded as hard as he could, she let go of his hand and pulled her mobile phone from her bag. "I want you to have this -"

"But Aunt Clara gave it to you!"

"Yes, well..." Aunt Harry shrugged, then started pressing buttons on the front of the phone. "Things just didn't work out. Anyway, you know how to use this. I'll get myself a new one and call you, so you can save my number. Then, if anything happens, all you'll have to do is ring me, and I'll come get you, alright?"

"But -"

"I've unlocked the phone, so you can pick your own code, and I've taken off all my messages and numbers, so you can use it however you want." Aunt Harry smiled at him again, and put the phone into his hands. "There are some photos of you and your mum on there too, so you'll have to text them to me. Promise?"

John stared down at the phone. "Promise."

"Good!" She gave him another hug, then got to her feet. "I've got a meeting to get to. Don't forget - if anything happens, call me and I'll come and get you."

Forcing himself to look away from the phone, John nodded. "I promise."

"Good. Come see me out, then."

Once she was gone, William shut the door, and John looked up to find Sherlock at his side and Mycroft smiling down at him.

"Your aunt gave you her mobile phone."

John nodded, his mind more on the photos on it than anything else.

"Did she give you a charger for it?"

That broke through, and John gasped. "No!"

"May I see?"

As John handed it over, Sherlock said, "Now that John's got a mobile phone -"

"Yes, Sherlock, I know." Mycroft looked at the phone and handed it back. "Finding a charger for it shouldn't be a problem."

Sherlock tried again. "It's only fair -"

"If I buy you the same phone, Sherlock, will you promise to share the charger with John?"

John looked at Sherlock, who had a pleased look on his face.

"Yes."

"Good, then that's settled."

John took a deep breath. His mum had always told him to say thank you and since Mycroft was here and was being nice... "Thank you for my toys and books." The words came out in a rush.

Mycroft's smile widened. "You're welcome. I hope you enjoy them." There was a beep from Mycroft's pocket and he pulled out a mobile phone and looked at it. "Excuse me, I must take this."

He turned away, and Sherlock grabbed John's arm and tugged him towards the stairs. "Once I have my phone, we can send each other text messages!"

"But we live together."

"So?" Sherlock let go of his arm and gave him one of those looks. "We can still text each other. It'll be fun. Anyway, I'm going to win the next race."

As he ran off up the stairs, John grinned and ran after him. He was sure he was going to have the best time ever.

The end.


End file.
